


Fear Not the Thorns

by rach_com89



Category: The Man in the High Castle (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - America, Alternate Universe - Nazi Germany, Alternate Universe - World War II, F/M, Gen, Nazis, Original Character(s), Original Character-centric
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-09
Updated: 2017-04-09
Packaged: 2018-10-16 18:26:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10576980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rach_com89/pseuds/rach_com89
Summary: This idea was borne of some questions I had from the start of The Man in the High Castle's first season over on Amazon Prime.Mainly; what would've happened to Audie Murphy in Philip K Dick's AU of the Second World War?Well, say hello to his AU alias in this spin-off. Featuring a few familiar faces, it will be mostly original character-centric.





	

The early morning sun shines brightly through the thin pale-yellow curtains, into a small one-room apartment. It looks a lived-in space, with brown walls that only add to the impression of uncleanliness amongst the clutter and wooden floorboards that have borne many steps through the years. Dotted around the apartment, in a random fashion, are spare automotive parts and old motor oil cans. On the top of the small single-door mahogany closet, there are stripped & broken radios. Under the metal double bed, with its rumpled blue & birch barkcloth duvet, there are three separate battered toolboxes. In the sink, dishes sit piled up, waiting to be scrubbed with a cloth & soapy water. A tap runs steadily in the en-suite bathroom, which is the size of a mediocre walk-in closet, and then it squeaks to a stop. A brunette man, his stature ideally suited to the small apartment, shuffles tiredly out of the bathroom in socked feet. The cuffs of his navy gabardine work pants lightly dust the floor, as he moves toward the single-door closet. Scratching his broad chest through his white vest, the vertically-challenged man sleepily pulls out a blue checked shirt from the closet and wanders back through into the bathroom. All the while, a Friedberg 14 Vollautomatic Stereo on the mahogany dresser by the door plays a song with a funky beat. When the man returns from the bathroom, subtly dancing to the rhythm, he wears the blue shirt smartly buttoned and tucked into the waist of his trousers. His brunette hair has also been smoothed into a presentable ducktail style. As he pulls a pair of tan leather cowboy boots, with Cuban heels, from under the bed, the song on the radio fades out,

“That was Bill O’Reilly with Devil Bomb, from his new album Dream Your World. Get it in all Resistance-friendly record stores from today, whilst stocks last!” The host, an energetic male with a deep Brooklyn ease to his voice, states, “That’s it from me, Johnny Ray, on the Morning Hour, here on Resistance Radio. Stay tuned for the news, followed by Miss Chrissie…” The grey wall-mounted telephone to the left of the door drowns out the little stereo. The man rises from his bed, where he has been pulling on his boots, and answers the incoming call. After a few accepting hums, he hangs up, grabs his keys from the dresser, takes a Silverbelly Stetson Ranger hat off a hook on the back of the door, and steps out of the apartment. The radio still plays on the dresser,

“This is Peter Williams with the latest news. Japanese authorities arrested three more insurgents last night, in the Port of Seattle, whilst the Greater Nazi Reich impeded an attempt on Oberscharführer Watkins’ life, in New York City, yesterday morning.”

#

“Krauts really don’t wanna give up this island.” Drawls a Georgian man, tiredly resting his chin on the butt of his rifle, as he sits on a low brick wall with the barrel of his weapon pointed earthward.

“Don’t think they wanna give up this entire war, let alone this pile of God’s green sod, until all us dogfaces have bitten the dust.” A young brunette Texan man remarks darkly, as he habitually rolls a golden band between the index finger & thumb of his right hand.

“Gee, Tex, that’s a bit dark. There’s Messina, yet. Then Rome. Then, on to the rest of Europe.” A third man, a dark-blonde with a broad Louisiana drawl, counter optimistically.

“This ain’t a sightseeing walking tour, Stanley.” The Texan snarls, before turning his blue-eyed gaze away, “Besides, judging by the way we had to scrap tooth & nail for Palermo, Messina ain’t gonna just fall easily into our laps.” He adds, still rolling the ring between his finger and thumb. With conversation dulling, all three infantry soldiers quietly turn their eyes to the uniformed men lining, like eager schoolboys, outside of the brothels. There are three in this street alone. The Georgian glances to the Texan,

“You not interested in getting some of the action up for offer to us, Mitch?” He thumbs one line outside a bomb-blasted white building, “They’re good around these parts. Say they ain’t seen men for days, or something. My Italian’s not as good as my French.” The Texan scoffs,

“Don’t think my gal back home would sympathise with my lonesome soul, if she were to find out I dallied with the questionable produce of Sicily in her absence.” He replies with a wry smirk.

“A baby-face like you with a gal back home?” Stanley chuckles, “She sweet on you then, Mitchell? Or, is the little lady saving herself for a real man?” He knowingly nudges the Georgian alongside him. Mitchell nods with an understanding smirk, as he flashes the ring to his comrades,

“That yours?” The Georgian asks.

“Nah, I found it in the rubble of some house back in Palermo.” The Texan drawls dryly, “Course it’s mine.” He drops it tenderly in the breast pocket of his shirt and rises to his feet, “Married her, with permission from her pa, before coming out here to fight for our future.” He adds, before quietly sauntering away with his rifle slung over his right shoulder.

#

“Future? What future?” He scoffs, as he walks along the road, twisting the golden band around his left ring finger. He stops and looks down at the simple piece of jewellery a moment, “I’m gonna find out what they did to you, Angel. I swear.” He mutters, before inhaling deep to keep the tears at bay and continuing on his way. Coming to the doorway of a dirty diner on a quiet street, he steps in and wanders to the counter, “Lem.” He nods to the tall African-American, with a buzz-cut, who stands behind the counter,

“Tex.” The man nods back, “Table in the corner, at the back. You want anything fetching over?”

“Coffee, black.” He remarks bluntly, before sauntering away. Making his way to the back of the diner, he finds that all of the tables are vacant. Wandering back to the counter, he taps the top to get Lem’s attention. The man turns slowly, “Where’s Anne?” Tex growls.

“She’s coming, Mitchell; don’t worry.” Lem nods, “It’s the table in the corner, at the back. Go wait there for her.” He adds. Mitchell removes the Stetson Silverbelly Ranger from over his brunette hair, smoothing down any potential strays through habit, and holds it on the barstool in front of him a moment. Irate, he leans against the counter. Lem leans back in fear of what the former soldier’s blue eyes hold,

“I was told, on the phone, that she would be waiting for me.” Mitchell growls. Lem sneers, with a shake of his head,

“Well, she ain’t. So, go sit in the corner, and wait for her.” He bites, thumping an off-white ceramic mug of black coffee down in front of the Texan. Some of the rich beverage slops over the edge, “And take your coffee with you, whilst you’re at it, seeing how you’re here. Save me a job.” Lem grumbles. Mitchell slips his long fingers through the handle and smells the rich roast,

“American?” He looks at the diner owner.

“What d’you think?” Lem snarls. The Texan places the cup back on the counter,

“I’m not drinking Nazi crap. Give me something proper. And American.”

“I’ll have to see what we’ve got in, but it might just be a glass of water.” The African-American sneers.

“As long as it’s a drink of some kind…” Mitchell grumbles, picking up his hat and wandering over to the table in the back corner.

Throwing his hat on to the battered green leather bench, Mitchell sits himself roughly down at the table and watches the door. After a moment, he lifts his left hand from his lap and twists the ring around his finger again. It has been more than fifteen years since he has seen his wife. His beloved wife. He left her in their small home, in San Antonio, with the belief that he would return to her after the war. Whether victorious or defeated, he would have come home to her. A prize greater than any other in the world. That is the belief he had. Feeling the tears welling to his eyes, he pulls serviettes from the dispenser and starts to rip them into tiny shreds. Lem brings over a glass of water,

“The only American thing I’ve got remaining, unless the Reich or the Japs have tampered with the lines.” He grumbles, with a wry sneer.

“It’ll do.” Mitchell moans miserably. Lem places the glass down and eyes the pieces of white tissue being scattered over the table,

“Try not to make a mess, yeah?”

“Alright.” Mitchell mumbles, but continues his little habit. Lem pauses in leaving him, and sits down on the bench opposite instead,

“Missing Rosemary?” He questions curiously. Mitchell shoots him an angry glare, as he continues playing with the serviettes, “It’s alright, Alden…”

“Don’t use that name.” The veteran snaps, “Don’t use my first name.”

“It’s alright, Mitch; you’re safe here.” Lem assures him, “You’re missing your wife, ain’t you? It’s okay to admit it, man; we’re all missing someone out here. We all lost a lot, when the Nazis and the Japs moved in next door. You missing Rosemary?”

“Stop saying her name.” Alden snarls, “I don’t care if you say we’re safe here; you don’t know who could be listening! Stop saying my Angel’s name!” He slams his hands down on the table. The glass of water trembles with the force, as Lem rises his hands in surrender and stands up to create distance between the two men.

The bell above the door jingles, and Lem turns to investigate. He looks over his shoulder at Alden,

“Looks like she’s here now.”

“Anne?” The Texan scowls, without looking up.

“Who else d’you think would be walking through that door this morning? Your angel?” Lem sneers. Alden rises irately from the bench,

“Alright, boys? There’s not gonna be any trouble, is there?” An aged female voice asks wryly from the African-American’s back. Lem steps out of the way, as he turns, to reveal the withered old visage to Alden. She wears a long black coat that looks two sizes too big for her wiry frame, and has her white hair pulled back into a simple ponytail, “Mitch, good to see you back.” She smiles warmly.

“Anne.” The Texan nods briefly, before sitting down, “I need back in.”

“Slow your horses, Tex.” Anne laughs softly, lowering herself gingerly into the bench opposite him, “Last time you did a job for us, you got two years in a Nazi internment camp for aiding known felons in their escape from prison.” She states in a heavier tone, without looking at Alden’s face.

“Known felons? Since when were religious beliefs a bookable offence?” He scoffs, before holding his hand up to stop Anne’s explanation, “I know the answer; since the Nazis moved into the east. They see anyone remotely different to them, or weaker to them, as inferior and dispensable. They kill them, like they would an infestation of rats in their glittering bubble that is New York City.” He states, “Still, I want back in.”

“Okay, okay. I hear you, Mitch.” She slips a couple of manila envelopes from under her black coat and places them on the table. Alden reaches a hand across to them, but she gently slaps it away, “In time, it will become clear. You eaten yet, this morning?”

“No.” Alden eyes her curiously.

“Pancakes sound good?”

#

“ _Wie heiss_ _en sie_?” The austere officer in a grey long coat and peaked uniform cap asks. Alden, on his knees in the mud, keeps his head down and his hands up behind his neck, “ _Wie heiss_ _en sie_?” The guard questions again, harsher than before in his impatience at the insolence.

“ _Ich verstehe nicht_.” Alden grumbles in his limited knowledge of the language, before tutting loudly, “You’re American; you know English.” He adds irately, without looking at the officer’s face.

“ _Wie heiss_ _en sie_?” The guard questions him again, in an awkward accent. Dressed in a dirty beige button-down shirt and matching pants, Alden still kneels with his hands at the back of his neck. He slowly shakes his head in disdain,

“Speak English!” He abruptly shouts back at the officer, “You speak English; I know you speak it! So, damn well speak it!” He rises to his feet in his ire and grabs the officer by the collar of his coat, “You speak English, Stanley; so, speak it, traitor!” He looks the man straight in the eyes. The Louisianan, who fought alongside him up until the slaughter at Messina, thrusts his fist into the Texan’s gut, sending Alden back down to the ground on all-fours, “Don’t… Don’t say it again, you good-for-nothing traitor. Don’t say it again…” He grumbles, winded. Stanley leans over the wounded former soldier,

“ _Wie heiss_ _en sie_?” He growls. Alden shakes his head with a wry smirk,

“You…” He spits on the ground, close to his former comrade’s boots, “You know my name.” He states darkly, “You know my name.” He spits again, before rising to kneel on the ground, “So, you say it.”

“I want you to say it.” Stanley stares grimly down at the man he once called a comrade.

“You want me to say it?” Alden glances, squinting as though there is sunlight to blind him, “Alright…” He rises gingerly to his feet. Stanley goes for a wooden truncheon on his belt, “No… Let me stand to give my name.” Alden pleads. Stanley removes his hand from the truncheon handle, and takes a wary step back. Alden salutes the American way, “First Lieutenant Alden Lyle Mitchell; 30th Infantry Regiment, 3rd Infantry Division, United States Army!” He then winks condescendingly at Stanley. The camp guard unfastens his truncheon and swings it into the back of his former comrade’s right knee, sending him crashing to the mud in agony. The beating goes on, until the First Lieutenant is battered and bloodied.

#

Alden rubs his hand against his right knee with the ghostly aching of the memory, as Lem carries over a tray holding two plates of pancakes,

“Pancakes with syrup for Anne, and with butter for Mitchell.” He states, as he places each plate down individually,

“Why no syrup for me?” Alden glances up suspiciously from his plate.

“You don’t like German ‘crap’, remember?” Lem eyes him knowingly, “Still, enjoy.” He starts to walk back to the counter, but Anne holds him at the table,

“Can we get two coffees as well; please, Lemuel?” She enquires hopefully, before looking at the man across from her, “You still have yours black?”

“Guess why he’s on water.” Lem cuts in, as Alden quietly drinks from the glass.

“Soon, he’s gonna run out of options.” Anne quips.

“Not if he can help it.” Lem retorts.

“He thinks this is a private war.” Anne speaks softly. The Texan glares at both of them, but does not say a word in retaliation. Instead, he quietly sips at his glass of water and tucks into his pancakes. Lem wanders away, leaving the pair to eat their breakfasts in peace. After finishing two of the four pancakes, Anne places her fork upon the side of her white ceramic plate with a clink and slides the top manila envelope across to Alden, “We have an assignment you might be interested in.” She states quietly.

“An assignment?” Alden parrots back, with one cheek stuffed with pancake.

“In New York City.”

“That’s Nazi HQ, here in America.” Alden starts in astonishment, “That’d almost be like sending me right into Berlin! I only did two years out of five, because I got out early. I escaped from that internment camp, Anne. I’m a wanted man, in Nazi eyes.”

“You said you wanted back in. I’m giving you a way.” She states calmly, “Take it, or leave it.”

Alden lowers his fork to his plate and lifts the manila envelope from the table. Tearing it carefully open, he slips out the document held within. After a moment reading through the first page, he slowly lifts his gaze to the woman across from him,

“Seriously?” He frowns, “A prison break? You’ve got to be kidding me…”

“We can find someone else to do it.” Lem remarks abruptly, as he brings Anne’s coffee over to the table, “We just thought you’ve got the experience…”

“Of breaking myself out. Not breaking anyone else out.” Alden cuts in dryly.

“Read on.” Anne instructs him coolly, as she lifts the coffee mug into her hands, “Thanks, Lem.” She smiles up at the diner owner. The African-American pats her on the shoulder and wanders back to the counter again. Alden slowly reads the rest of the file,

“I’m expected to be the getaway driver?” He frowns up at Anne again, “That’s still dangerous, for me. What if one of the Nazi guards sees my face? What if I’m recognised, before I even get to New York?”

“That’s something we’ll have to think about, but you have the right kind of vehicle. And, I know how protective you are of it. How sentimental you are over it.”

“It was my pa’s, from before the war. No-one else gets to drive it. No-one is taking it to New York City; I might never get it back.” He holds up the document, “If this is anything to go by.”

“Yes, they got sloppy. Overconfident.” She mumbles distantly, glancing aside,

“I’ll say.” The Texan remarks sharply, before sipping calmly from his glass of water, “Still, I don’t know if I can do this. It’s dangerous. Life-threatening. For me.”

“Maybe, this could sway you.” Anne slides the remaining manila envelope across the table to him, to his confusion, “Intelligence in New York City have found something you might be interested in seeing.” She adds cryptically.

“What?”

“Open it, and find out.” Anne remarks, “If you dare.”

Slowly, Alden takes up the second manila envelope and places the document from the first alongside him on the bench for a moment. Hesitantly, he puts a hand to the glued tab that acts as the seal and peels the corner up. He stops. He looks sharply to Anne. She nods. He looks back to the envelope in his left hand. His right index finger slips under the seal and tears half of it open. He pauses again. He looks up to Anne. She nods again. He tears the rest of the envelope open and peeks inside,

“A photograph?” He queries.

“Take it out, and find out.” Anne instructs him unfeelingly. Alden tucks two fingers of his right hand and grabs the article within the envelope. It feels thick enough to be a photograph, if not two. Tugging gently, he slips the contents out of the envelope and holds them in front of him. In the first image, a Nazi official in a black Schutzstaffel uniform strides from the backseat of a black car, with a woman in a nurse’s white dress standing obscured behind his lanky figure. Alden slips this first photograph behind the second to find an image of the same official walking along the pavement, with the nurse following at his heels. Now, Alden can see the woman in greater detail. Her brunette hair is curled to sit off her shoulders, as she carries a small black leather bag in her left hand, with her face cast down to the pavement beneath her feet,

“Rosemary…” He sighs immediately, “That’s… It can’t be her. But, it looks… It is her. It is Rosemary.” He states, assured. Anne nods slowly, as Alden sharply looks across the table at her, “Who’s the Nazi?”

“Smith.” Anne snarls, “Obergruppenführer John Smith…”

“That sounds Germanic by nature.” The Texan drawls dryly.

“Don’t it just.” Anne retorts in the same tone, before continuing, “Former United States Intelligence Officer. Made the rank of Captain in the war. Turned chicken and defected before the dust even settled over the ruins of Washington. Spent the rest of the war fighting for the enemy, and quickly made their alternative to General.”

“The cowardly traitor.” Alden grumbles, “The bastard sick or something? What’s he need my Rose for?”

“Don’t know. Intelligence hasn’t gathered that much on Smith, or his…connection with Rosemary. But, she’s in New York City, Alden. She’s alive.”

#

“Rose?” Alden calls hopefully, as he walks through the corridor of the hospital for the wounded that came in from Europe in the last six years. Men missing legs or arms, or wearing bandages over where eyes once were. Soldiers left to stare blankly across the room, left shaken by the innumerable blasts of shells in the trenches. Youngsters barely old enough to carry guns being pushed through the corridors in wheelchairs, by nurses that look run ragged. Alden spots one nurse, potentially the matron of the ward, who looks vacant of work. Approaching her, he places the duffle bag he has been carrying on his right shoulder at his feet, “Excuse me? I’m looking for my wife, Nurse Rosemary Mitchell. Is she here?”

“Sorry, I don’t know a nurse by that name.” The middle-aged woman quickly shakes her head, her blonde bob wobbling with the force. Alden runs a hand over his brunette hair in his minor annoyance,

“She’s been working on this ward for four years.” He frowns, “Rosemary Mitchell; you must know the name.” He states irately.

“I assure you I don’t.” She shakes her head in refusal again. Alden huffs in annoyance now,

“Alright.” He sighs, “What about Rosemary Ankins? Is there a Nurse Ankins, Rosemary Ankins, working here?”

“There’s a Nurse Ankins, but she’s not Rosemary. She’s Nurse Jennifer Ankins.”

“She’s Rosemary’s sister…” Alden mutters to himself, “She might know where she is.”

“You can ask her. She’s in with the shell-shocked soldiers at the moment, though; I’ll go see if someone can relieve her, for a brief conversation.”

“Please, do. Thank you.” Alden remarks bitterly, before the nurse wanders off and leaves him standing by the desk at the entrance of the ward. He taps the fingers of his left hand on the desk in his impatience, as he slips his right hand into the left breast pocket of his military dress jacket. He has gotten dressed up to make an impression on his wife, after six years apart. From this pocket, he pulls the wedding band he has carried close to his heart throughout the war.

Jennifer Ankins is a meek woman, with blonde hair instead of her sister’s brunette locks. She marches hesitantly to the soldier waiting at the desk, tidying her uniform and straightening her hair as she goes,

“Alden…?” She gasps, hesitant to grin in her astonishment, “W-we heard that 3rd was… Well, we heard that you weren’t likely to come home.”

“Where’s Rose?” He asks her immediately, “Where’s Rosie, Jen?”

“She…” Alden grabs her by the shoulders, but she doesn’t flinch. She is used to the men under her care sporadically grabbing her during their nightmarish flashbacks,

“Where…is…she?” He speaks slowly, deliberately, “No lies, no stalling. Tell me; where is Rosemary? Where is my wife?”

“Alden, please…” She removes his right hand from her shoulder, but he soon grabs her again,

“Tell me, Jen. Where is she?” He snarls.

“The… They came.” She mutters hesitantly, trying to shy away or cry.

“Who?” Alden stares bewilderedly at her, “Who came? I want to know where Rose is!” He pushes her away in his anger. Two of the guards on one of the doors step forward to restrain him, “Where’s Rosie? Where’s my Rose?”

“The Nazis came into the hospital, two weeks ago. Half the men you’ll see here, should you go walking round, will be taken to one of their hospitals in two days’ time. To be seen to according to their procedures.” Jennifer explains bluntly.

“And Rosemary?” Alden questions tearfully.

“They took the best of our nurses to other hospitals. Rosemary was one. I don’t know where they took her exactly.” She bows her head. Alden pulls himself free of the guards, stepping forward, and stops stock-still. He does not know what to do,

“T-they… They took my wife?” He crumbles to his knees in his distress, “My Rosie…?” He then lets out a haunting howl of despair into the corridor, bringing several of the fitter patients to their doors in investigation.

#

“Rose…” He whispers, tears cascading softly down his cheeks. One of the little droplets falls onto the photograph still resting in his hands, “Rosemary…” He tenderly sighs once more. Anne sips hesitantly from the white ceramic mug, before casting it aside on the table. She doesn’t feel much like drinking German-brand coffee now. Inhaling deeply, she leans forward,

“You willing to go to New York now?” She asks heavily. He scoffs in disdain, throwing the photograph down on the table,

“It’s a huge place; I’m not likely to find her, within the time I’m expected to remain there. Besides, I’m not going to go storming into every Nazi establishment, barking to see my wife. My face has probably been passed around the ranks in Wanted posters and records not too dissimilar to these.” He waves the mission report in her face, “One alias is not viable for passage, and I’ll be amazed to pass through the first border crossing! As much as I wish I could go and pick my Rose out of that polluted Reich garden, I just can’t. I’m wanted; I’m a renegade, a fugitive. Anne, I would be crazy to go.” He throws the report on to the table and leans back into the bench. Folding his arms across his chest, he gazes off distantly across toward the counter. Anne slides the report back toward her, and then reaches for the photographs. Alden’s hand snaps to hers, “Leave that one. The one where I can see her face. Let me keep that one, Anne. Please?” He requests suddenly, miserably. She nods and takes the one with Rosemary obscured from view by the Nazi. She then sighs,

“We really could’ve used you, Mitch.” She confesses, “You’re a good member to have around.”

“Find me another job, then.” He states, “Just not this prison break.”

“Like what?” Anne frowns.

“I could deliver packages and letters to the Resistance members scattered around these disunited states.” He suggests, with a shrug, “Just something other than sitting around Canon City for the rest of my days.”

Stepping out of the diner, once breakfast is finished, Alden dons the Stetson Silverbelly Ranger back upon his head and wanders back the way he had approached the establishment. Windows are boarded, doors are barred. Shops stand closed, rotting away like the rest of Canon City. Alden digs around in his pockets and pulls out the few coins he has. A few American silvers, and Reichspfennig coins in the value of fives and tens. Most places no longer accept the American currency. Pocketing these coins, he turns his attention once again to his wedding ring. His Rosemary is alive. After all these years of believing that she had been killed by the invading forces, she turns up in New York City. More than a thousand miles away, but alive. Under the control of the Greater Nazi Reich, but alive. He cannot keep the sweet smile from his face, as he rounds the corner of the street toward home. He stops in his tracks. The smile falls from his face. Dressed in a long brown overcoat and black hat stands a scrawny man, blocking his way with a Marlin Model 1894 lever-action repeating rifle,

“First Lieutenant Alden Mitchell?” He growls, a toothpick clenched between his thin lips.

“No.” The Texan shakes his head, “Ben Jones.” He states.

“Got your papers to prove that?” The man drawls in a Georgian accent, “Because, right now, you’re looking a hell of a lot like First Lieutenant Mitchell. To me.” He cocks the rifle. With his heart racing, Alden reaches into the back pocket of his gabardine pants and slowly pulls out his identification papers. Checking to make sure he isn’t handing over his authentic papers, he then holds them out for the armed man. The bounty-hunter snatches them from Alden and reads them over,

“Mighty suspicious that you look a lot like First Lieutenant Mitchell, Mr Jones.”

“Yeah, it is.” Alden laughs uneasily, “You mind taking that gun off me now, then?” He asks. The bounty-hunter gradually, tauntingly, lowers the rifle,

“Better, Mr Jones?”

“Thanks.” Alden nods sharply. The hunter hands back the identification papers and tips his hat to the veteran,

“Good day, Mr Jones.” He starts to walk past the fugitive, but pauses with a hand to Alden’s shoulder, “Pray we don’t meet again.”

Playing with his wedding band, Alden sits on the hood of his father’s old bread delivery truck. The black Ford panel van, from 1935, was the last vehicle his father ever drove or owned. It was the vehicle that he died in, on December 5, 1935. George James Mitchell was on the road, to a delivery in Elmendorf to the south of San Antonio, when his heart gave out. Alden, when his father failed to return home, went out with a Mitchell family friend, in their battered green 1928 Chevrolet Series AB National. Snow had fallen all through the night before, and laid fresh on the ground. First, Alden saw the black panel van tilted into a roadside ditch, where it wound up after skidding to a halt. With the AB pulling up ahead of the van, ten-year-old Alden clambered out of the car and walked back toward the Ford. His footsteps crunched in the snow on the road. At the door of the Ford, he saw his father slumped against the steering wheel in the small cabin. Presently returning his attention skyward, he gazes at the waning crescent moon that is already high in the sky. It must be late into the night now. Shuffling his short frame off the hood of the van, he rummages in his pockets for the keys to the doors of his apartment. The run-in with the man carrying the Marlin has got him spooked. As he saunters to the entrance at the front of the garage, leaving his father’s Ford van in the yard at the rear, he looks both left and right before slipping his key into the lock of the door. Quick as a flash, he pushes the door open and steps inside. He is not safe in Canon City. He is not safe anywhere in America. Standing at the bottom of the stairs leading up to his apartment above the garage, he comes to a decision. With his life now almost meaningless to him, he can chance it in a daring cross-country mission. He can chance it, going to New York City and bringing Rosemary home. A new home, somewhere in the Neutral Zone, where they can live out the remainder of their days in quiet yet questionable peace. Holding the ring upon his left hand, he gazes distantly ahead at the stairs and grins confidently. One last job; a chance to put Rose back where she belongs, in the safety of the Texan Neutral Zone. Maybe even with him at her side. In his eyes, it is a mission worth dying a thousand times over for.

Racing up the stairs, he bursts into his apartment in excited haste and grabs the receiver off the wall-mounted phone. Dialling quickly, he turns the radio down and throws the hat to the unmade bed. Tapping his foot upon the boards in his impatience, he looks about the small room. It is unkempt; it is missing a woman’s touch, a woman’s presence. Not that he would expect Rosemary to keep it clean & tidy all the time. Just that he misses the scents of the flower pots she would sit in the windows, and the piles of knitting that she would leave by her favourite armchair in their San Antonio home. Tears well to his eyes with the thoughts of home; or, what was once home to him. The ringing clicks to an end,

“Sunrise Diner.” Lem’s voice grumbles indifferently.

“It’s Jones.” Alden starts sharply, impatiently.

“Jones?”

“Ben Jones.” Alden snarls, “Tex.”

“Oh, Tex.” Lem retorts without feeling, “What’s happened; why the change?”

“Ran into some trouble, as I was leaving the diner earlier. Anyway, I need out of Canon City, and fast. I’ll take that NY delivery; well, the pick-up. The job on offer earlier? I’ll take it.”

“The what?”

“What Anne spoke to me about, at the diner this morning.” Alden states, “The break?”

“Oh, the break.” There is a pause on the line.

“Hello?” Alden starts to worry, when no further response comes through, “Hello?”

“Stop panicking, Jones.” Anne’s cigarette-tinted voice comes through calmly, “Lem tells me you’re taking the job after all?”

“I need to get out of Canon City.” He states bluntly, “And, I need to get to Rosemary. See her for myself, one last time.”

“One last time? I don’t like that kind of talk, Jones.”

“C’mon, Anne. Like I’ll be leaving New York City, if they even allow me to make it that far? I’m a fugitive on their radar; they’ll kill me, as soon as they recognise me.” Alden smirks wryly, bitterly.

“You really wanna risk Rosemary bearing witness to that eventuality?”

“It’s a risk I’m gonna have to take, if I wanna see her again. If I wanna get her back home again.”

“Okay then, the job’s yours, if you want it that bad.” Anne states after another pause, “See you at the garage beneath your place, in the morning. Nice and early.” He knows the code; he needs to be down there at the crack of dawn. That’ll be easy, when he won’t likely sleep at all during the night. He has to prepare.


End file.
